finding the ounces
by Younger Dr. Grey
Summary: post-finale. Charley had said to [Davis], "I gave you every ounce of everything inside of me." Now, she has to find them again.
1. finding the ounces

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 _"You were the world and every star in the sky to me, unconditionally."_

 _— Charley Bordelon_

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Charley had said to him, "I gave you every ounce of everything inside of me." She'd torn her eyes away from that gorgeous penthouse view, where most of the buildings shrunk below them and the whole of the city blurred into multi-colored ants, like they'd strolled through some paint or something. She'd battled the physical bile that seemed to rise with the words she'd told herself to keep in. Davis didn't deserve her words, nor her thoughts, nor any other part of her, but she couldn't exactly move on without acknowledging what she'd be leaving behind. She hadn't known how much she needed to speak to Davis until he'd brought her into that room.

How many other women had he brought into rooms like this one over the years? How many other women struggled with whether to close their eyes or stare out as his hands and lips ghosted along their skin? Of those women, how many thought of her? Of the dutiful, committed, brilliant wife who had no idea that any of this was happening? And exactly how many times had Davis thought of that wife of his and sunk into another woman only to come home, wrap himself around Charley, and swear to her that he loved her?

He did love her. Not in a way that won out over his other desires, but he cared for her and he needed her. Same as he cared for Micah. But none of that love could fix what had happened. None of that love could ever overshadow the fact that he kept up affairs and secrets for years, facilitated Milena's rape, and then turned around and swore to her that he'd done nothing wrong, that this sex worker knew nothing, that Charley should pay the money and let them go back to how they had been.

If she hadn't pushed, she would've never known. If Milena had simply let this go, Charley would've gone years before questioning her life. Precious years that could've been spent with her family, as she currently knows them, with Nova and Micah and Ralph Angel, Violet and Blue and Hollywood if he and Vi can stop fighting long enough to come back together. They will eventually. They actually do have love. Honest, supportive, barely conditional love. It'll just take a moment or two before it clicks for them, before that wins out and no time or distance can keep them apart.

But that's them.

This is her — Charley Bordelon, thirty-four years old, a now nearly single mother with a fifteen-year-old son who grows smarter, stronger, and more like the rest of his family every day. Micah checks in on her once she gets back from the meeting. He leans in through the doorway to the room they share and asks about the farmers and if this mill deal will work out.

His second question snaps her back to the moment. Sends her brows sky-rocketing and has her just about ready to curse Remy, RA, and Violet — the most likely of perpetrators. Maybe Nova too, given how close the two of them are becoming.

"How'd you hear about that?" she asks.

Micah rolls his eyes. "You all talk pretty loud for people who don't want to be overheard. Plus, it makes more sense this way."

"What makes more sense?"

He won't meet her gaze. "Dad." He shakes his head, but more like he's trying to clear it, trying to see through all the thoughts up there. "Him being here only makes sense if he's here to help you. And the only way he'd be here to help at this point is with money. You can't get a divorce and use money from joint accounts, so he's here to secure investors, whether or not he knows he is." Then Micah does look her way, offers a bit of an open-mouthed grin. "Am I right?"

She clicks her tongue. "You're too smart for your own good," she tells him, but Micah only grins wider. "Your father's going to be around every once in a while. We'll see if he can earn another chance to know you. But this will be on your terms from here on out, I promise."

"Good." Micah rocks on his feet. "So, is the deal going through then?"

Her face splits into the widest smile she can muster. Probably wider than she should be able to at this point. Between the blackmail and extortion and actually facing how gutted Davis made her. Yet, her lips roll back without a thought. "It is," she says it like a song, like the words taste as good as the lattes she's been missing — overly sweet because it's nice to treat herself and feel decadent within the endless hours of meetings and appearances.

Micah claps his hands once. Charley lifts up so she can kneel on the bed in triumph. He laughs at her, and she announces, loud as can be, "You, sir, are looking at the proud owner of her very own mill. An empire in the making."

Micah comes to lean on the bed. "Easy, Mom, you're sounding like Lucious."

She swats at him so he jumps back. "How dare you. I'm Cookie all the way."

He makes a face worthy of a meme. Steps back even further out of reach as her eyes narrow. Then he laughs, tossing his head back. "I'm kidding, Mom. It'll be great."

She nods. They can't fix all the years that the Landrys have been extorting people and making out like thieves, but they can give the farmers around here a chance to own something again. A chance to be free of the people who've been terrorizing them for decades and actually make a profit that allows for more than just what Ralph Angel said. Sure, it's great to make enough to be able to do it all over again the next year, but it's also great to grow and flourish and to force reparations for how people have wronged you.

One day, Ralph Angel will see it her way. He'll see what she's trying to do, and she can let him take the reigns a bit more around the farm. Give him the freedom to do everything else so long as he entrusts that cane of theirs into this new mill of hers. Give her a chance, and she'll give him every one after.

Charley settles back onto the bed. Focuses back on Micah. "Thank you, baby."

"But, uh, as nice as this is, I wanted to go out for a bit."

"It's ten o'clock, Micah, you can't—"

He throws his hands up in defense. "I promise you that I won't get into any trouble. I told Nova about seeing Dad today, now she's worried and I figure she's also kind of sad about Too Sweet leaving. Figured I'd hang out with her for a while. If that's okay."

It'd be nice if he hung out with Charley, but they could work on that. Work towards having that same easy closeness they had before their lives imploded. Besides, who is she to stop her son from caring about the rest of his family?

"You can go, but—" she jabs her finger towards him, eyes playfully ablaze, "—if I find out this was some kind of rouse, there will be hell to pay, Micah West."

He scoffs — actually scoffs. "What else would I be doing, Mom?" He chuckles, like the thought of him sneaking off to be with his study group, or his new girlfriend is ridiculous. There's a lot he could get up to — he could sneak into a building he shouldn't be in, he could run around with his father, which would be even worse than anything else she can think of.

"I'm just being honest. Keeping it real."

"Uh huh. Well, I'm taking a car over so she doesn't have to drive so much. I'll put it on Dad's card, don't worry." He ducks out of the room with a smile.

She calls after him, "You shouldn't be doing that!" Which means she tried, so it's all up to him. Spend his dad's money on small things, rack up a tab that hurts Davis even a fraction of how he's hurt everyone else. Little victories.

She'd been used to sharing victories, first with her small family unit and then with Remy. It might be too soon to try and talk to him, but maybe she can figure out the right words to get a response.

Her phone takes its time unlocking. It's not a sign, just her phone debating if life in NOLA is worth it or not. She clicks into her chat with Remy and… stares to be honest. She'd tried a few messages before going to see Davis. Typed them and deleted them because what excuse did she have when she had no idea how that meeting would turn out? She'd thought that she wouldn't give in to him. Had figured that the chances of her using her body like that, stringing all of them along even further, were slim, but she hadn't known for sure. Not until Davis' body had been around hers. Until his lips touched her skin and all she'd felt was hollow.

She could lead with that.  
/ I wanted to stay with you tonight. The last thing that I wanted was to spend any more time with Davis but [delete] [delete] [delete]

No, that's not quite right. It makes it seem like she went against her direct wants, destroys her credibility instantly.  
/ You walked away tonight and I watched every step that you took in the opposite direction. You couldn't have wanted to leave. Right? So, why don't we talk about this? [delete] [delete] [delete]

Okay, something else then. Something less about observations and assumptions of Remy's wants and needs. More about her. How she keeps failing him at tests that she creates for herself. How she builds her own obstacles and runs straight into them, ruining everything each time they try.

/ I told you that I wouldn't stand you up again and then I left. I shouldn't have done that. Especially not to see Davis. He doesn't deserve my time, but I needed to do this. I don't want to send messages about this. I want to talk. Answer my call?

Yeah, that's the one. She hits send at 10:14p. Waits for a response.

And waits.

And waits.

And Micah sends her a text before Remy does.

 **From Micah to Charley Bordelon, 10:27p  
** / Car's here. I'll msg you when I get to Nova's

 **From Charley Bordelon to Micah, 10:27p  
** / The second you arrive, Micah. Don't leave me waiting up for this.

 **From Micah to Charley Bordelon, 10:28p  
** / I won't, Mom.

Not that it would matter if he did. She'll probably be up all night anyway.

Though, why should she sit around waiting for a response when she could call? If Remy wants to hear her out, then he will answer and she will say everything she needs to say. Or he won't answer, and she'll let it go.

She calls. It rings. Remy doesn't pick up. Charley doesn't actually let it go.

She drums her nails on the trackpad of her very asleep computer, then swipes over on the screen to get back to her messages. One more message — that's the new deal. One more text to him, ten minutes of a wait time, and if there's still nothing, then she will go back to staring at her bank account and waiting for something else to go right.

 **From Charley Bordelon to Remy Newell, 10:36p  
** / I'll leave you alone after this. I wanted to say that I'm done with him, Remy. I had a few more things to say to him before I could accept it, before I could let myself truly let go. Now I'm done. I'm sure it's hard no matter how you lose a spouse, but losing him this way? Having him so close and so intricately a part of the finances that I helped cultivate that now could be the thing that makes or breaks the potential acquisition of this mill? I try to act above it all, try to stay neutral, but still needing him in any way left me feeling hollow inside. More like the kind of emptiness you feel when you're sick? Where there's nothing there yet it keeps churning, keeps rearing up at the worst times? I needed him here to be able to tell him, with no room to question or doubt, that I can't go back to him. I won't. And I hope that this means that what we have can continue, but if you need time, or if you need to talk, then you just let me know. No rush. I'm not going anywhere.

Second speech of the night, not quite as eloquent. Not littered with the sort of imagery that leaves a person gutted. But she is proud of what she'd said before — to Davis — about giving him every ounce of her. That image lends itself to more metaphors, more ways to look at herself. Potential steps to follow. She just has to find those ounces now. Strain for them? Grind and zest and juice and force up bits of herself that she hasn't seen since she was a child. Anything and everything until she can get back to where she used to be.

She'll rebuild and relearn. Like any good process, it will take some time, but she can handle it. And she might even be able to share some of what she's gaining with someone else. She'll be sure to keep a few more ounces for herself this time than she did before, but she's gone so long without them that it's easy to let them go again. Easy to see them drop away into another man's grin and tuck into the corners of Remy's eyes so that when they light with a little tear, she knows some of that comes straight from her.

Honestly, she doesn't even have much of a say in giving away anything to Remy. She's been siphoning pieces of herself for him since she saw him in the diner and stumbled her way into grins and stunted words. They weren't stunted like stuttered, or flustered, more like each word met up against this picture she'd formed of everyone down here. Remy fit the picture, with his plaid button-ups and boots that had enough traction to handle the soil yet would still release the land onto the welcome mat of whichever place he chose to unwind in. But he also confronted expectations; the eyes that greeted her first like an old friend and then later like he'd been waiting to see her for years; the roll of his tongue, quick with memories of her father and promises to help however he could; the strength of him, quiet and stable and consistent, always wanting but not for anything from her, not for anything she wouldn't give away without even being asked.

If Davis was the world and every star in the sky, then Remy was the moon and every drop of the sea — a million pieces all together, crafted in a way that comes off effortless and endless, and different all the time without ever feeling foreign to those who've known it. Constant and wide-reaching, but present and reactive in a way that stars can never be. Stars can burn hundreds of years before people ever know about them; they snuff out, and they might grant wishes, but they might also hold onto empty hopes without letting you know that there's nothing they can do to help.

Buzz.

She comes back long enough to see his name pop up on her phone.

 **From Remy Newell to Charley Bordelon, 10:44p  
** / You've been blowing up my phone for the past thirty minutes. Look, I can see why you win so often, Charley. You have all this instinct, all this empathy and a real easy connection with people. But time after time, you turn around and use that connection to make sure that you get your way. That's not easy to see. But I do see it, though, see how you prioritize and how unabashedly you'll move people around like pieces on a board. That is a lot to take in.

It's also pretty breathtaking, mind-boggling and affirming to know that people are so simple. Everyone practically telegraphs their wants and needs, so if a person can see them — like Charley can — then why not play to them? Why not make sure that the world works best for all of those involved? Yes, she might have pushed people around lately, but now they have the mill and the farmers to make it work; Davis has an opportunity to be around Micah again and to be in a place that won't simply celebrate him but might also force him to grow a bit; Charley can fix all the wrongs that have been done to their family, just like she told her daddy she would. Charley even helped the very same sex workers that she wrongly disrespected and belittled with her actions. Why can't anyone else see the beauty in what she's done? The necessary evil that needs to happen to make change around here?

 **From Charley Bordelon to Remy Newell, 10:46p  
** / So you're threatened by me?

 **From Remy Newell to Charley Bordelon, 10:48p  
** / I'm scared for you. I'm scared for what this must do to you and the weight of making these decisions on your own. You don't have to do all that. You don't have to hold your cards to close to your chest when you're with us.

Of course.

 **From Charley Bordelon to Remy Newell, 10:49p  
** / Why? Because you all know so much more than me?

She taps almost restlessly against the side of her screen. Watches the bubble of his incoming words pop onto the frame. He and everyone else down here think she's so dumb. Not always, but enough. They see her and see the city girl who only knows how to deal with ball players and money, the one with no home training because her home had been built on a foundation of lies and led to another home literally made of glass. Do they know what she did in each of those homes? Thrive. She thrives everywhere, and if they think for a second that—

 **From Remy Newell to Charley Bordelon, 10:51p  
** / Because we're family.

She stops tapping.

Reads his message over again, then hers before it and his again, then his before that and then the last two, and the sound she makes sounds kind of like a sob. A dry one. A guttural upheavel of emotion. Let the air overturn the stone that crash landed on her chest.

Family, he says it like it's fact. It might be actually. Might be that simple and easy to understand. It could explain how quickly she took to him, how naturally she knew the stillness of him before they'd even spent time together really. He is family, because his cane's the basis for their family's new start, because of his history and kinship with Ernest, because he'd seen fit to help them when she asked, and because she entrusts him with parts of her that no one but Davis has ever known.

Family, not necessarily in the way she's used to, though he's family in a way that she needs. Even if he's only replied to berate her, she might honestly need some of that too. He can keep her grounded without sounding like a lecture from RA. He sounds like a partner. Like worry rather than judgment, like the only thing he doubts is that holding all of this in will be good for her.

 **From Charley Bordelon to Remy Newell, 10:54p  
** / I don't know how to listen well. Never really needed to. Listening normally meant being told to wait my turn, so I take what I can using the resources that I have. I learned pretty quickly how to read people, mostly to make sure that everyone felt comfortable around me, make sure I wasn't too imposing, or too much of what they expected me to be. I'm not trying to make excuses. I'm trying to explain that I've never needed approval to make decisions. The only approval I needed was the one I tried to get from communities that would never accept me, so why bother?  
/ All I want to do is fix things for this family.

She massages the lump in her throat after she hits send. Zones out enough that the time between her message and his seems to fly by.

 **From Remy Newell to Charley Bordelon, 10:58p  
** / We all want the same thing. We have different ideas on how to get there, but we want the best for everyone.  
/ Charley, I want you to feel safe to be whoever you want to be. If you want to slip on a suit and scare all those rich investors until they give you everything you're looking for, fine. You want to throw on some jeans and a t-shirt and trek across the land in rain boots so you don't mess up the bottom hem, do it. You want to be with me, then be with me, Char. Talk to me. Know me. I love LA apologies, but it's not the city in you that got my attention. It's that drive — that's all country right there, that's good ole Louisiana guiding you through and bringing you to where you're supposed to be.

 **From Charley Bordelon to Remy Newell, 11:00p  
** / And where is that?

 **From Remy Newell to Charley Bordelon, 11:01p  
** / Home.

The screen gets blurry, and she blames it on the contacts shifting over her eyes. Something about a little water loosens them, dislodges them and her jaw and that rock that somehow slid down into her gut.

 **From Remy Newell to Charley Bordelon, 11:03p  
** / Don't lose yourself trying to help everyone else. You've done that long enough. Don't lose you, and you won't lose me. Okay?

 **From Charley Bordelon to Remy Newell, 11:04p  
** / Okay.

 **From Remy Newell to Charley Bordelon, 11:05p  
** / Now it's getting pretty late, and I for one could use some sleep.

If only it was an invitation.

Or if she invited herself.

 **From Charley Bordelon to Remy Newell, 11:06p  
** / I think I'd sleep better if I weren't alone tonight

 **From Remy Newell to Charley Bordelon, 11:07p  
** / You'll have to get used to sleeping alone eventually

She sighs. Sets the phone down rather than responding. That's fine. Totally fine. Then the phone buzzes again.

 **From Remy Newell to Charley Bordelon, 11:08p  
** / …but eventually doesn't have to be tonight.  
/ if it's sleep, you're after. Just sleep. No funny business like earlier.

Her grin finds its way out of hiding.

 **From Charley Bordelon to Remy Newell, 11:09p  
** / You loved earlier.

His smile had taken up his whole face, and his eyes hadn't left hers for a second. How long could he go with his eyes locked on hers? It could be a challenge, one probably difficult to keep since he hadn't seen her yet. (And believe her, she's worth the view, worth whatever punishment could be concocted for glancing away.) But that'll have to wait, won't it? Until after a date, one that she doesn't miss and he doesn't derail with talk of the farm.

 **From Remy Newell to Charley Bordelon, 11:10p  
** / I could love a lot of things, just not right now. It might be a little too soon.

She groans.

 **From Charley Bordelon to Remy Newell, 11:11p  
** / You're killing me.

 **From Remy Newell to Charley Bordelon, 11:11p  
** / it's murder-suicide, I assure you

She cackles at that. Head lolling to the side, eyes disappearing to give room for that endless smile of hers. At least they're going down together, right?

 **From Charley Bordelon to Remy Newell, 11:12p  
** / Only sleeping. I promise.  
/ I'll give you a stake in the mill.

 **From Remy Newell to Charley Bordelon, 11:13p  
** / Keep it. I love the sound of a black woman running things.

 **From Charley Bordelon to Remy Newell, 11:14p  
** / You better

She wants him to ask what she'll do if he doesn't, wants the banter and crooked grins that remind her of just how fluid their lips can be, how they could mold and conform and lock as tightly as Nova's hair. He wants her to be ready though. He wants her not to run, not to push and prod to bring anything out of him that he doesn't want to give her. That's the underlying, right? In everything he said, in his insistence for space and time, he wants her to prove that she won't use him the way she's using everyone else. He wants her as she is, with no machinations. He said as much even if he won't actually say it.

 **From Charley Bordelon to Remy Newell, 11:15p  
** / What kind of pjs should I bring…?

 **From Remy Newell to Charley Bordelon, 11:16p  
** / the kind for sleeping, Charley. Nice warm rest in a big soft bed with someone who has work in the morning

 **From Charley Bordelon to Remy Newell, 11:17p  
** / How early?  
/ I'm wondering how early the alarm needs to be

 **From Remy Newell to Charley Bordelon, 11:18p  
** / Around 9

 **From Charley Bordelon to Remy Newell, 11:19p  
** / Oof, that's not a lot of time. Maybe I ought to just stay here

She wouldn't. He has to know she wouldn't.

Her phone rings. She answers with a swipe and a smile.

"Hi, Remy."

He chuckles on his end. "You just want to hear me beg, don't you? Because I won't do it."

"You won't?"

"I will not." He's probably shaking his head. Probably grinning around the room and settling deeper into his pillows and imagining her doing the same. "You wanted to come over. Don't flip this on me, Char."

She laughs. "'Char.' That's new. Most people just stick with Charley."

"I'm not playing this game," he says. He tries to sound stern, she's sure of it, but his smile comes through a lot clearer than the forced bass in his voice.

She does figure eights on her laptop's trackpad, anything to keep the levity in her voice. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You can't help it, can you?" That one sounds a little stern, a little rooted in something that stiffens her smile and slows the beat of her heart.

Her heart pumps just enough to get out a fractured "Remy, I didn't—"

He laughs. Full bellied and boisterous, and she would glare at that man if she were with him. He keeps on laughing though, even as she repeats his name in a curse. He says, "Girl, I know you didn't think you were the only one with jokes. Now, you coming over, or should I just go to bed now?"

"You're awful," she tells him.

"So are you," he says back.

She rolls her eyes at herself more than anything else. Lets go of what surely will not be the last of the games she plays, but might be at the turn of how serious they can be. "I'm on my way."

"I knew you would be. See you."

She hums in way of saying goodbye and clicks off the line when he returns it in a higher pitch. She finally closes her laptop and heads out before she can get sucked back into any other thoughts of business, or transactions, or anything else. She did her work for today. Now it's time for a night off, in bed, with the guy she should've gone home with tonight. Time to celebrate, as much as he'll let her anyway.

.

.

.

 **From Micah to Charley Bordelon, 5:14a  
** / Crap, sorry I didn't text you. I'm here. just woke up to go to the bathroom. Everything's great!

.

.

 **From Micah to Charley Bordelon, 8:30a  
** / Nova brought me home but you're not here. You're not with Dad, are you?

.

.

 **From Micah to Charley Bordelon, 9:15a  
** / Mooooooooom

 **From Charley Bordelon to Micah, 9:18a  
** / Soooooooooon  
/ Doesn't feel good to be forgotten, does it?

 **From Micah to Charley Bordelon, 9:20a  
** / You play too much

 **From Charley Bordelon to Micah, 9:21a  
** / So I've heard. Be home soon.

 **From Micah to Charley Bordelon, 9:21a  
** / Where are you though?

 **From Charley Bordelon to Micah, 9:22a  
** / Getting in the car, got a late start this morning but I'm checking on the mill  
/ MY mill  
/ *screams excitedly*

 **From Micah to Charley Bordelon, 9:23a  
** / Don't message like that, Mom. It's lame.

 **From Charley Bordelon to Micah, 9:24a  
** / Your friends think I'm cool.

 **From Micah to Charley Bordelon, 9:25a  
** / Yeah well they don't know you  
/ + your pajamas aren't here

 **From Charley Bordelon to Micah, 9:26a  
** / Why are you looking for them?  
/ Nevermind, can't explain, too busy working on our future empire

 **From Micah to Charley Bordelon, 9:27a  
** / You're just standing there, aren't you?

.

.

 **From Micah to Charley Bordelon, 9:35a  
** / You really are going to ignore me now.  
/ You say you want to spend more time together then you avoid the time I'm trying to make  
/ Woooow

 **From Charley Bordelon to Micah, 9:37a  
** / That's not fair.

 **From Micah to Charley Bordelon, 9:38a  
** / ( ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯)

 **From Charley Bordelon to Micah, 9:39a  
** / …  
/ this is karma  
/ you are my karma

 **From Micah to Charley Bordelon, 9:40a  
** / haha love you too, Mom

Maybe it won't take so much work to get those pieces of herself back. If she's got her family, it should all work out just fine, for all of them.

.

.


	2. finding the words to move forward

**.**

 **notes:** this takes place post-season one finale and post finding the ounces, which I highly suggest reading, even if this could technically stand on its own.  
\+ s/o to the anons who've requested that I continue this. I've got a borrowed line about floorboards from the Queen Sugar novel by Natalie Baszile because I adore the way she had Remy talk about his house. and I wrote this with the assumption that Charley's only been to Remy's house once, which was in episode seven for the crawfish boil.

oh, and this technically fulfills the prompt for day 14 of the 30 x 31 writing challenge, massages.

/

 _Charley tried to remember the last time she'd heard footsteps on old wood, any wood. "I didn't know wood sounded like anything... What are they saying now?"_

 _"They're saying-" Remy cocked his head. "They're saying, 'Don't blow it this time, Newell. Keep your mouth shut and maybe she'll give you a second chance.'"_

 _"I bet she will," Charley said._

 _Remy crossed the hall. When he was standing right in front of her, Charley shifted her weight again. "What about now?"_

 _He looked at her intently. "They're suggesting that I ask you if you'd like to see the second floor."_

 _\- From "Queen Sugar" by Natalie Baszile_

.

.

Remy lives far enough out that the majority of his street's just empty land leading up to his driveway. Cars grumble against the pavement that's not quite loose gravel but isn't fully smoothed over either. It's a nice way to make sure he hears everyone who's headed his way. The lights from her car beam straight against his front window once she's close. Good thing too, since it gives him the moment or two he needs to pick himself off the couch and head to the front door.

Charley grins from her car. Of course he'd wait up for her to get over there. He'd been so worried that she wouldn't find the place, or that she'd get lost since she'd only been there once, for the crawfish broil. As if she hasn't been finding hole in the wall places in Southern California for years now. But it's nice, that he cares enough to check up on her and pester her about how to get there. That he doesn't want to miss a second so he waits by the door.

She settles the car into park and grabs her stuff from the passenger seat. She doesn't need much for the night. Just some clothes for the morning and her glasses case. Her phone charger and, she imagines him to be the type of read before bed so, she has her kindle too. That way she doesn't seem presumptuous.

He cracks the door and holds onto it. The porch lights and hall lights cast a glow around him that's far too flattering for a night meant to be spent quietly. His pajama bottoms - loose, a navy that stands out against the door - almost match hers. And sentimental tees seem to be his style too, since he has a faded College of Agriculture shirt on. She has a mom tee from Micah's old school, though her sweater covers that up for now.

Once she's got the door open, she tell him, "We match." Remy grins, the smile already taking up a good half of his face. "And see, I found you just fine." She clicks the button to make sure her car's locked before heading up the walk.

"So you did." He must be itching to ask her where she got the address, but he lets it go. Waves her over to him. "Come on, before the bugs get inside."

The bugs - one thing Charley definitely didn't miss about the south. They've loved her forever, snacking away on her the second she'd visit as a kid. A few years back, though, Micah found out about a little trick to calm down the biting type: local honey. Eat some of it for the weeks before heading down, and they'll mistake you for everyone else. She might be a few months in to her new life down here, but she still has honey every morning.

She slips past Remy to get into the house, and the second the door clicks, his free hand finds hers. He tugs her to him, and his eyes trail from hers down to her sweat pants.

He says, "Surprised they aren't name brand."

She rolls her eyes, but the sting isn't behind it. "If it makes you feel any better, I got them at H&M."

He nods and tugs her that much closer. "It does." She winds up nodding with him as she leans in. There's a second, a breath passed between them, where they each seem to remember that this isn't quite normal yet. No established pattern for a kiss in greeting, but she leans up and he swoops down just the same. He clicks the lock on the door. Steps closer until their bodies are flush against each other. Honestly, she should've been the one to move. They could get against the door. Get used to the idea of being alone in his very empty house.

He grumbles against her lips. Sighs as he pulls away and up to his full height. She does her best not to pout. Sleeping, that's the plan for tonight. Because she stands him up to talk to Lena, or to Davis, and he needs some sort of assurance that she's actually here for him and not just any warm body with some farm knowledge.

She blinks him in. "So, what's a girl got to do to get a tour around here?" Casual enough. It breaks a bit of the tension. Gets a chuckle from each of them, and she runs her thumb along the hand still wrapped around hers. He side-steps so he's beside her and leads the way into the house.

There's the foyer, which splits two ways; one is to the living room that bleeds into the dining area; the other's to a hallway with a staircase and the path to the kitchen. He tells her, "I restored most of the house myself about ten years back. There's the living room. Laundry's off the kitchen. I've got an office down here."

"An office," she hums when she says it. She used to have the best home office, all bright and modern with a couch comfy enough to make breaks actually tempting even to a workaholic. The front page poster prints all along the walls. Davis probably won't keep them all up. He won't take them down right away, but it's not like he has a lot of use for a giant print of the three of them anymore, does he?

Remy brings her into the kitchen. He lets go of her hand there. "Thirsty? Hungry? I probably should've asked sooner."

"I'm fine, Remy." But her throat scratches when she tries to clear it, and he goes for a glass anyway. His cabinets aren't too high up. She could get to everything but the top shelves with her bare feet. His paper towel holder's next to the coffee pot - standard, but it has a timer at least. Little sunflower artwork covers one wall. She points to them while he pours some water. "You like sunflowers?"

He nods but ticks his head to the side at the end. "Shawna did. So I came to love them." He sticks the water pitcher back into the fridge. "I, uh-" He holds the glass out to her while he crosses close to the art. "I like what they stand for. Did you know they follow the sun? They turn towards it. So I've got a little patch 'round the side of the house to remind me to follow the light."

She could use a reminder like that. She sips at the water. "Focus on the good."

He clarifies, "Focus on what reminds you that you're alive." He raps a knuckle against one of the tiles. "Come on, I really do have to get some sleep at some point. Let's head upstairs."

No hand holding on this part of the trip. Which is good. Easy. Means they don't have to walk up the steps at any specific pace, and she doesn't have to feel his pulse jump in his fingers as they get closer to his bedroom. He won't feel hers do it either. But he can see the way her jaw tightens when he glances back down from a few steps ahead. She tries grinning around the tension, but he notes it. Slows his pace and stops at the head of the stairs to point to his left.

"The guest bedroom's that way," he says, "and the master's on the right." A little end table's behind him with another vase of sunflowers, and a framed picture of him and a woman. Probably his wife, obviously beautiful. Though, Charley's not too sure if commenting on his late wife will help or hurt them at this point. She heads to the right, and he follows her.

The door's still open, so she can see right into it. Bookshelves as tall as the ceiling on one side of the room. A door to the closet beside that. A king sized bed with a navy comforter and pillows that look like they'd swallow her whole. Two bedside tables with lamps, and a book on the right side.

"So you are a reader," she says, crossing to it. It's not until he laughs that she realizes she hadn't mentioned that train of thought to him. She wheels around. "I'd figured you would be. You seem the type."

He strolls into the room, taking his time as he goes. His eyes light up the longer he watches her, and all of the tension from his body seems to melt at the sight of her here. He sits down on the edge of the bed, on the left side. "Yeah, I usually read a few pages a night. Helps to calm me down. What about you? I bet you stare at your phone until your eyes hurt."

She laughs sarcastically and readies herself to sit on the bed. Lowers herself onto the right side with her cup still in her hand.

"I usually have things to do. I'm not scrolling through Twitter aimlessly," she tells him.

"Oh no, you're scrolling with a purpose." He's mocking her, but she'll take it. She'd take a lot from him.

"Like you don't have any bad habits," she says.

"I don't!" He shifts a bit so he's facing her. "I brush my teeth every night. Floss. Rinse." He chuckles. "I even pick my outfit for the morning."

She snorts. "Which plaid shirt shall I wear tomorrow." She has to dodge the swat he sends her way, but it's worth it. "I like the shirts."

"You better. It's most of my wardrobe." He laughs again, and it turns into a yawn about halfway. Spreads and curses her to do the same. She shakes her head to fight it. Winds up noticing the small speaker beside the book. He must see her staring because he says, "Music helps on quiet nights. Sometimes, I'm so tired I knock right out, but some nights are worse than others."

Some nights, she rolls over in bed still expecting Davis to be beside her. She catches herself before she rolls the whole way out of bed at least. Though, it took a few falls before her reflexes started kicking in. And she always feels too cold, and the bed's too big no matter what size she's sleeping in. Even the twin sized air mattress at Aunt Vi's - the one she and Micah switch off on every once in a while - feels endless and isolated.

She blinks herself back to the moment, and Remy just nods again. It's almost like they're back in one of their early conversations, about loss and grief and rebuilding around the people who need her. He'd once told her that she had people who only wanted the best for her. What people does he have? She might not have been entirely present while walking through the house, but there's not a lot of other family on the walls. Not a lot of friends either.

"You don't have many people in your life, do you, Remy?"

His lips thin out a bit. "I can't say I do. But I have the other farmers. I meet with colleagues twice a month. I have - had - Brother Ernest for a while there. Actually, wait here." He gets up and heads out the room. His feet pad along the hardwood, which is definitely one of the best things about a wooden floor, hearing the other people.

At Vi's, she can't hear people's feet, just their voices and the sounds around the rest of their lives. Vi's always cooking something, or fixing something, or talking to somebody on the phone. Micah tends to stay pretty quiet, but once he's comfortable, he plays TV shows out loud from his laptop. Plays music he knows won't get him into trouble. And when Nova's there, the keys click through the whole house, no matter what else they turn on. But it's nice, to hear other people, to know they're there.

Here, she can hear the floorboards. Hear his heels and the beat between each footfall. When she closes her eyes, she can hear his laugh off the walls, hear him in an echo as he tells her about being an irrigation specialist, and a professor, that he cuts hair, and that she has to commit to something instead of worrying about everything. She can hear the scratch of his pen on the paper as he sketches out plans for the drains and stints. Hear pages turn in his book and the crinkle of his shirt as he lifts it over his head. But she doesn't hear anyone else.

The stairs creak. Her eyes pop back open, and if there were ever a time to scoot to the head of the bed and try to appear casual, it would be now. So she scoots, and she sets her bag down on the ground, sets her water on the bedside table. He's reading a book about gardening. He really lives this stuff, doesn't he?

"Okay, here." He ducks back into the room with a picture in his hands. A private sort of grin covers the bottom of his face, and his eyes have a misty glow when he holds the picture out to her. Her jaw quakes before she even touches it. Her throat spasms. His hand might cover part of the photo, but her daddy smiles up at her from the part she can see.

He shifts his grip to free up the rest of the pic. The Remy in the photo's at least five years younger, but he's still got a hat bigger than his head and a plaid shirt more fitting of a picnic blanket. Her dad's shirt matches perfectly though, exact same cut, length, and everything. Remy's thrown his arm around Ernest's shoulders, and they're mid-laugh, Remy's head's thrown back and Ernest's is forward so the sun nestles in the grey of his hair.

"Oh." It comes out as a breath, a watery, choked little breath. Remy crawls across the bed. Settles in next to her and keeps holding it since she can't seem to get the rest of her to move just yet. It's just, she hasn't seen a lot of pictures of her dad since he passed. Minus the ones from the repass, and the few around the house, but she's seen all of those. She knows them enough to tell anyone who took it, when, and what was happening. Can describe it to someone who can't see it. But this... "He looks so happy."

And Remy laughs in a full bodied way. "I stepped out the truck in the same exact shirt. He called Ralph Angel to take it, but you know your brother. He wanted to be right in the middle of it. So Wood took the camera and he swatted Ralph Angel out for not keeping with the program." He runs the pad of a finger over a corner. "It's probably one of the only pictures we ever took. I keep it on my desk. But... if you wanted it... I could always print another."

He wants her to cry, doesn't he? That's the whole plan of the night. Just make her fucking bawl her eyes out the first time she's alone with him like this. How can he sit here and offer her this? How can he - how can she say no? She gets one hand up to grab the picture. Actually, on the edge on the right side, there's a bit of a sleeve. She laughs. "Ralph Angel?"

He nods. "That's your brother."

Her whole body feels hollow. "He hates me."

Remy shakes his head immediately. "He looks up to you, always has. He used to tell me all about what his big sister did in California. Bragged to everybody who'd listen that she worked for the Gladiators and -" He stops himself.

She finishes it, "And her husband's the star?" Because her accomplishment alone couldn't have been enough to make people envious. He'd want to add that in. Makes sense, people could see Davis and know he was successful. See the ring, the perfect family, everything but the truth. He only cared about himself. That's not what Charley wants out of life anymore. She wants people who hang their pots and pans on nails on the walls and cook their eggs in bacon grease and actually care enough to never once let anyone off the hook.

Like Violet. Vi wouldn't give Davis so much as a glass of water when he came down here. Because that's the kind of woman she is. She'll love and nurture every person on this planet who needs her, until they mess up. Until they betray the trust she's given them. But not everyone's like Violet. Ralph Angel sure isn't. He's more like Davis - caring to an extent, but he doesn't seem to have a lot of wiggle room for people who don't fit into his plan just right. He'll keep details to himself, and he will spout off if someone doesn't agree with him. He'll rage. Or lash out privately. She's sure Darla knows all kinds of awful things about her by now. Blue too, if he's been listening.

Her point, she thinks, is that Ralph Angel doesn't love her anymore than Davis did. He doesn't respect her, doesn't know the depths of her enough to trust her to be there for him.

Remy clears his throat. "Now I walked straight into that one," he says. "But it's good. I wanted to talk about him again, in person."

She smoothes the corner of the picture. "Can't we just go to sleep?"

"We could, but I think we should at least start talking about it. You said it's over with him."

"It is." Tonight proved that. Standing in that hotel room with him touching her, kissing her - every cell in her body caught on fire, but at the same time, it was like a wound that cauterized, burned to the point where it was clean and sealed. She's about as done as she can be.

Remy grins. "I don't doubt it. I just want to say I'm sorry for putting you in a position where you could feel pressured to figure things out so quick. One second I'm telling you to take time and sit with it, and the next I'm... inviting you to spend the night."

She cocks her head to the side, smirks just a bit. "Technically, I invited myself."

"You did."

"But...?"

He stares out instead of at her. To the lamp on the bedside table. "But I've wanted this for a long time, Charley. Longer than is appropriate. And the more I got to know you, got to see what an extraordinary, brilliant, gorgeous, sexy woman you are -" He bites his lip before he meets her eyes again. "- I knew I didn't care one bit about your ex. Not when there was even a chance that you could see the same in me."

This man's going to kill her if he keeps talking like this. She's already on the verge of doing something stupid, and here he is spilling his heart out. And it's not like she hasn't thought of this before. She knows - she knew then - that his feelings were changing from platonic to a lot more. She could sense it, in the crinkles of his eyes and the ease in his laugh. He shared his light with her as easily as he did his wisdom. His pain at losing his wife, at losing a friend in Ernest, and also his hope for what this specific harvest could mean for each and every one of them.

He tells her, "I tried to push it away, but when the storm happened, even before the night at Violet's, you remember when you tried putting up the board without gloves on?"

He'd tsked at her. Four times. "You told me I'd get splinters all in my hand."

He nods. "You would've. If not for the gloves. And you didn't have to, but you took off your ring before putting the gloves on, and, Charlotte Bordelon, I swear every hair on my arms stood on end." And every hair on hers spikes at the sound of her name like that, the bass of his whisper when he calls for her attention. His eyes go to her hand, and it jumps. Even as she tells herself not to move. "I watched you wiggle the ring free and slip it away into your pocket. And it felt like you were saying something. Then I felt like a vulture for even thinking that's what it was."

But that was what it was. It was the first time she'd taken the ring off with any thought of Remy in mind. And she'd spent the next ten minutes with it burning in her pocket, but by the time they'd made it back to the car to head to Violet's, by the time the rain came in and they laughed in the doorway, she'd adjusted. Forgotten the weight in her pocket and the lack on her finger. Forgotten everything but how warm her chest felt even as the rest of her was freezing.

Remy says, "I asked myself, what kind of a person prays for the end of a marriage?"

Nova probably. With her married cop of an ex-boyfriend. Milena, maybe. But Milena hadn't seemed swept up in the dream of taking Charley's place. She'd seemed content with her lot, being Davis' girl and the perks wrapped up with that. And Lorna, Charley's mother, she could've felt that way. But none of these women... No, these women are in the wrong. They perpetuate these lies, these injustices on the sanctity of a relationship. But Remy hadn't done anything wrong. If anything, Charley - she has to put the picture down.

"Remy, you didn't end my marriage. Davis did. And I might have invited you to help me let it go, but you shouldn't have to feel guilty for wanting something." Not when it's already been thrown away.

"Still," and here he does take her hands, "I've spent months working my way around to this, and I have a huge head start on starting over." He's got years on her at this point. His thumbs knead at the back of her hands. "If this becomes too much, if it's going too fast, if you need a break-"

"I'm fine, Remy." How many times has she said that sentence?

"How many times have you said that?" He waits. "Really. And how many times have you meant it?"

She doesn't even know what fine is anymore. She'd been fine at the mill, when her pushing had led to a date. Fine when the farmers agreed to hear her out. Fine when he'd defended her with Ralph Angel. But she's not always fine on her own. Isn't really fine unless she's saving all the farmers, or hearing her praises sung. Unless she has a purpose.

She groans, and he keeps on kneading. Massaging out the tension as she squeezes down on his hands. "I've never been patient," she says. Not once.

He swoops his head over to hers and nudges their foreheads together. "Lucky for you, I'm pretty good at that. Now, come on, let's try and sleep."

Her laugh rips out from her. Their foreheads clash, and he winces. "Now I'm all..." She can't find a word, so she just makes a sound.

"I'd say I could give you a massage, but I get the feeling that wouldn't help much."

She shakes her head. "Not if you want to actually sleep tonight."

"Mkay." He lets go of her hands and scoots back. "But you're on my side. Move over."

"Your side?" She repeats it with raised brows and a tilt of her chin. She doesn't even have to tease him further. He narrows his eyes in his playful way, and her chest expands not that they're easing back to something familiar. They might need to take things a little slower, or at least parcel some of this news next time. She sets the picture of him and her dad on top of his book. Says, "I'm kind of comfy over here."

But he doesn't respond with words. He does a little hum, gives a nod, and then he reaches out and rolls her over to the other side of the bed. She shrieks, just a little, and her wide eyes land somewhere between shocked, affronted, and mildly turned on. He laughs. She really needs to read a book or something at this point, just distract herself before she winds up worked up.

He says, "We can revisit sides when you're ready."

If he keeps throwing her around like that, he can have any side he wants. Trust.

.

.

.


End file.
